I Hate Every Beautiful Day
by EricaLumiere
Summary: /Gothika/ Miranda and Pete are together, but still have plenty to learn about one another.
1. Chapter One

A/N: Just a bit about Pete and Miranda... A couple years later they're in a very intimate relationship, but still have some things to learn about each other.

* * *

The dark-skinned woman lay, still waking. The soft blankets covered her bare body, concealing it from the man who occupied the space in the bed beside her.  
  
Glancing to one side, she looked at the clock. Just after three in the morning.  
  
Rolling to the opposite side, she cast a long look at the man who lay sleeping, seemingly serene as a child.  
  
A smile appeared on her face, and she reached one hand to touch his face. She caressed his cheek carefully, and he didn't wake up. Pulling the blankets closer to herself, she inched closer until her head was resting on his chest, and she draped an arm around his naked waist.

* * *

She woke as someone pushed her short, curly hair out of her sleeping face, kissed her cheek gently.  
  
Never a heavy sleeper, she let her eyes open slowly.  
  
"Hey," a man's voice said softly. He leaned down to kiss her again, this time on the forehead.  
  
"'Morning," she whispered, her voice hoarse with sleep.  
  
"Did you sleep well?" He was so polite, even though he needn't be. Sitting up and leaning against the headboard, the blankets fell down to his waist, and she stared at his bare chest and stomach.  
  
One hand went out to briefly touch his exposed body, then crept back under the blankets. "Yes... What time is it?"  
  
"About ten," he replied, stroking her hair. "Do you want anything to eat?"  
  
She shook her head; let her eyes close again as she relaxed, the softness of the pillows and blankets calling her back to sleep.  
  
"I think I'll go shower, then come back later, okay?"  
  
She felt the bed shift as he crawled out from under the blankets, heard his feet step softly onto the wooden floor.  
  
"Love you, 'Randa."  
  
"Love you, Pete."  
  
Miranda Grey fell back to sleep as Pete left the bedroom, headed for the bathroom.

* * *

She woke with a start.  
  
Sitting up, she momentarily forgot she was naked, and looked around. The curtains were still drawn, and - although it was only Pete who would see her - she pulled the blanket up over her chest.  
  
Sure, she loved him, but she didn't feel like having him oogle her when she first woke up.  
  
Noticing that he'd left a robe for her on the bed, she pulled it over to her, slipped her arms into it.  
  
Stepping onto the cold floor, she tied the robe, using the belt at her waist to secure it.  
  
'No sneakie-peeks right now,' she thought, seeing that the bathroom door was open, the room deserted.  
  
Guessing Pete would be in the kitchen, she left the bedroom, headed down the stairs.  
  
Crossing the carpeted living room, she made her way to the kitchen where she found her lover, quite busy. He was rushing around, a pot on the stove, a pot full of eggs boiling next to a frying pan with an omelet, waiting to be finished.  
  
While he was cooking, he'd rush away for a quick second; jot something down on a piece of paper on the table. A few sheets of paper, actually. He had a small pile of papers, ink scribbles all over them.  
  
Miranda stood in the doorway, watching him.  
  
Pete couldn't see her, as his back was to her, but he quickly attended to his omelet, glanced at the pot. Tapping his fingers against his temple, he picked up the pen and wrote something down, crossed it out, kept writing. Once, he went to the refrigerator, opened the door and stared long and hard at its contents. Finally, he closed the door and returned to his eggs.  
  
She could only watch this routine for so long before she said anything. "Pete?"  
  
He was clearly surprised and looked up from the papers. "Miranda. Good morning, love." There was an edge of nervousness in his voice, but she let it go. He was always nervous these days.  
  
She strode across the kitchen, stopped by the table, careful not to look at his papers. "Morning. What are you doing, running around the room like this?"  
  
He smiled, laughed. "Just getting work and breakfast done at the same time."  
  
Dropping the pen on the table, he threw his arms around her, drew her close. Placing his lips over hers, he kissed in only the way that a satisfied man could.  
  
Miranda finally pulled away, raised an eyebrow at him. "Aren't you cold wearing only boxers?"  
  
Pete glanced out the window. Winter had certainly set in, and was trying to creep into the house. "No, no, I'll just turn the heater up if I need to."  
  
She smiled, seated herself. "Are you going to eat all those eggs?"  
  
He paused where he was, halfway between the table and stove. "I'm not sure... I just felt like cooking."  
  
Shrugging off his odd behaviour - she was accustomed to his strangeness appearing every-so-often - she let it go, simply observed him at his tasks.  
  
After about ten minutes, he'd long ago finished with the omelet, put it on a plate, set it on the counter. He'd also asked her if she was hungry, but she simply said no, she didn't often eat in the mornings.  
  
After a year together - two years since she'd lost her husband - he still asked her if she wanted breakfast (she didn't), how she liked her coffee (she didn't drink coffee, just tea) and if she wanted him to pick her up anything to drink when he went to the "jar store" (vodka coolers).  
  
But she held no grudges - he was still learning about her. And after all, he was just used to asking these questions. He had lived with a woman a few years earlier, and always asked her things about her, because she always changed her mind.  
  
But Miranda was pretty consistent and Pete was beginning to understand her. They had only been living together for about seven months now - she moved into his house, grateful to leave her rented apartment - and she loved it, living here with him.  
  
Sometimes Miranda thought that she and Pete had a better time together than her and her late husband. But they really were different kinds of relationships. She tried not to compare, as that was unfair, and instead enjoyed Pete's sometimes erratic behaviour.  
  
Currently, she was drinking a tall glass of ice water, still sitting at the table, watching him.  
  
He was immersed in his letter, mumbling to himself, writing, getting ink on his fingers as he ran them over the pages.  
  
Eventually, she had to go over and turn down the element on the stove as it continued burning, but Pete was paying no attention. On her way back to the table, he hunched over his papers.  
  
"Pete, honey, I'm not looking at what you're writing," she told him, sitting back down.  
  
"Huh?" His head snapped up. "Oh, I know, I know... Just... something I do. Sorry, love," he apologized, glanced back at the stove. "Thanks." 


	2. Chapter Two

"Hon, you're going to be late for work!" Miranda grabbed Pete's lunch from the 'fridge and waited for him at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
"I know! I'm coming!" He ran down the stairs, briefcase in one hand, the other struggling to do up the buttons on his shirt. "Shit." He dropped his case.  
  
"Hang on, I'll get it," Miranda handed him his lunch and she expertly buttoned his shirt for him. Leaning down to pick up his case, she waited patiently for him to tuck in his shirt.  
  
"Thanks, 'Randa," he kissed her cheek and, taking his things, headed out the door. "I'll call you later, all right?"  
  
She smiled at him. "All right."

* * *

Now that the past couple of years were done and over with – the incidents with Rachel, mourning over Doug, her harsh depression, and realizing how much she felt for Pete – she was ready to move on.  
  
What with everything that happened, it would seem off for Miranda to still want to work at the hospital. Nevertheless, she tried it, thinking it was still what she wanted. But she was wrong.  
  
They started her off with a simple desk job, and she was fine with that. But it was the driving to and from work that got to her. Those roads still held a lot of memories for her. But she said that no matter what, she wanted to work with people, to help them anyway she could.  
  
"Good morning, Miss Graham," a young blonde woman chirped out cheerfully as Miranda entered the office.  
  
"Sophie, we've been over this… Just call me Miranda," she raised an eyebrow at the intern, who was insistent upon using Pete's last name when addressing Miranda.  
  
Sophie smiled, nodded. "Good morning, Miranda."  
  
"Good morning, Sophie.  
  
Not up for too much excitement, she'd soon found a job as a paralegal. It was a nice, boring desk job filling out loads of paperwork, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. She just needed a break from people.  
  
As soon as Pete found out she'd gotten the job, he'd rented ISecretary/I and told her to avoid personal relationships in her office.  
  
Sighing, she sat down in her chair, started on whatever work that day held for her. True, legal work wasn't as exciting as working in a hospital, but she was actually quite glad to be away. All those memories…  
  
Sometimes, she would wake up from a nightmare, drenched in sweat, reaching to the other side of the bed, praying that Pete would be there. Trying to muffle her sobs, she'd snake her arms around him, as if holding on for dear life. But he always woke up, whether she wanted him to or not. He would pull her into his arms, kiss her cheeks, brush the hair out of her eyes, tell her everything was all right.  
  
And then she'd be able to fall back asleep, so long as she was resting carefully on his chest, feeling his heart beat in his chest.

* * *

"Hey," Miranda turned around from her spot on the couch as Pete came in the living room, untying his tie as he sat down beside her, leaned in for a kiss.  
  
"Want some help?"  
  
"No… What do you think I did before you?"  
  
"Struggled for hours?" Miranda pushed his hands away and untied the piece of fabric that was threatening to strangle her lover.  
  
"Ha, ha, 'Randa. You're hilarious. Do you want Chinese for dinner?"  
  
"That was random, but sure," feeling playful, she put the tie around her own neck, expertly doing a half-Windsor knot.  
  
Pete stared at her, his jacket already thrown on the coffee table and his hands fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. "Hot. Wanna have a late dinner?"  
  
"Can I wear the tie?"  
  
"Nothing but," Pete slid his arms out of his shirt, ran a hand through Miranda's hair.  
  
"You're on."  
  
"…top of you."  
  
Miranda laughed, wrapped her arms around Pete as he leaned in for a kiss.

* * *

"Miss- Miranda?"  
  
"Yes, Sophie?"  
  
"There's a message for you," the intern held out a slip of paper, handed it to the woman.  
  
"Thanks," Miranda smiled, studied the paper as she headed to her office.  
  
Just back from lunch, she hoped it wasn't anything that involved a lot of moving, as that leftover Chinese food had stuffed her quite well.  
  
"'Sorry, no can do you tonight, wanna have lunch tomorrow? Love, Yours.'" Miranda rolled her eyes and buzzed Sophie via intercom. "If Mr. Graham calls back, can you tell him he'll have to make good acquaintance with Mr. Hand and his five children tomorrow?... Thanks."

* * *

"So, I was talking to this foxy young thing on the phone today… I think she said her name is Sophia, Samuel… Sophia? Foxy Sophie?"  
  
"Get to the point, dear," Miranda smiled over her French toast.  
  
"Anyway, she told me I'm supposed to meet someone named Mr. Hand? What a ridiculous name. He must be English. And he has five children! I wonder what he does for a living."  
  
"You're dripping syrup, dear."  
  
"Dammit." Pete wiped the spot off the table with a napkin. "So, you're a funny gal. What do you think this Foxy Sophie meant?"  
  
"Well, dear, I think she meant to go play by yourself and let the other children have their important business meetings, and that she herself is a little too – how shall I say it? – illegal for you."  
  
Pete raised an eyebrow from across the table. "Is that the best you can do?"  
  
"You know I can do better."  
  
"Actually, I think in the Official Dirty-Talkers Handbook, they refer to it as 'worse.' As in, 'which phrase is worse, that you do not want your children to hear?'"  
  
"How about I dirty talk you tonight and you let me have a chance at getting that raise tomorrow?"  
  
"Well… Can we do more than just talk?"  
  
"Will I fall asleep during my meeting?"  
  
"…Maybe."  
  
"Can you make me extra strong coffee in the morning so I don't?"  
  
"Absolutely!"  
  
"And waffles with sliced strawberries and powdered sugar for breakfast?"  
  
"If you want."  
  
"In bed?"  
  
"What's in bed?"  
  
"Breakfast."  
  
"Mine?"  
  
"Not if I fall asleep during my meeting."  
  
Pete set down his fork. "All right. Sex tonight for us, breakfast in bed for you, and… what for me?"  
  
Miranda smiled. "A night in the sack with the queen of dirty talk."

* * *

"Pete!" Miranda was trying to whisper, but over the phone, it proved difficult if you actually wanted the other person to hear you.  
  
"'Randa?"  
  
"Guess what!"  
  
"…You slept with your boss?"  
  
"Don't be gross. I got the raise!"  
  
"…Because you slept with your boss."  
  
"No!"  
  
"Oh, then why?"  
  
Miranda could almost _hear_ Pete smiling. "Aren't you happy for me?"  
  
"Of course I am! Congrats, 'Randa."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Hmm… Just how thankful _are_ you?"  
  
"Pete! Is that the only thing you can think about?"  
  
"Well, no, I also think about you… And having sex with you… And-"  
  
"You're so crude! Anyway, I have to get to work. I'll talk to later, okay?"  
  
"Sure thing. Love you."  
  
Miranda practically glowed. She loved, more than almost anything else, to hear Pete say he loved her. "Love you, too. Oh, and thanks for breakfast this morning."  
  
"Mm. Thanks for… dessert… last night." 


	3. Chapter Three

It had started out innocently enough, their relationship had. First, they were co-workers. Then they became friends. Only in Pete's wildest fantasies could they have become lovers. But they had.  
  
Because Miranda was not always up for driving her car – oh, the memories! – Pete would sometimes offer to take her here or there, drive her to the grocery store, then keep her company during her errands.  
  
But one night, after picking up some milk at the store, when they drove back to Miranda's house, it was such a "movie moment" night, as she would later comment. The rain was pouring down in sheets, the lights were flickering from the storm, and the phone lines were as good as dead.  
  
So she offered to let Pete stay the night.  
  
And it turned into lust.  
  
She led him to the spare room, both holding a candle, and he had his hand lightly on her shoulder, as she was leading the way. Setting their candles down on a bureau, he surprised her by grabbing her hands and putting them around his shoulders, wrapping his own around her waist.  
  
"It's such a perfect night for dancing," he whispered in her ear, so softly that it sent a shiver down her spine. "Don't you think so?"  
  
True, it really was. The falling rain sounded perfect, and the barely-opened window let in just the tiniest bit of a cool wind. It was just dark enough in the room to send a romantic feeling to them. His body heat pulled her in, and the feel of him kept her there.  
  
She gave in, resting her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as they swayed gently back and forth, the carpet soft under her bare feet.  
  
"Miranda," he whispered after a few minutes.  
  
"Mm?" her face was nuzzled against his neck, and she inched her mouth closer, kissed him, not sure why.  
  
He was startled at the kiss, but didn't let it deter him. "Miranda," he pulled away from her, just barely, and she opened her eyes, blushed. Smiling, he kissed her cheek.  
  
She blushed, although she begged herself not to, she did. But she kissed him once more, greeting his lips with hers. "Pete," she whispered, pulling away.  
  
"Miranda, I…" he cocked his head to one side and stared at her, seemingly thinking, as if some great idea was filling his head, and she was his muse.  
  
"Oh, get on with it, Pete! What is it?" she smiled.  
  
He paused, licked his lips. "…This." And he gave her a kiss with such passion and promise that she had to hold tightly around his neck, her fingers trailing through his hair.  
  
When they pulled away once more, it was then that Miranda took the initiative – and his hand – and led him to the bed, the covers spread out flat, with scarcely a wrinkle, and the pillows freshly fluffed. Everything smelled of stormy winds and fabric softener.

* * *

As with all couples, they had their ups and downs. Their ups were good sex, good conversation, and few arguments. Their downs were no sex, no conversations, and sometimes hiding away in the bathroom so they could cry in private.  
  
When the downs hit, they hit hard. Very hard.  
  
Miranda typically had more downs than Pete. There were so many triggers around her, and if she wasn't careful, she could get sucked into some terrible memory, something terrible being played over and over again in her mind. She'd come out of it crying, screaming, clawing at her hair, as if reliving the day she woke up in the institution.  
  
Luckily, Pete had been there almost all the time when something happened. He'd pull her arms away from her face – she was no longer allowed to have long nails, because of one incident that left a scar by one temple – and push her back against the wall or the floor, pinning her under his weight, wait until she'd cried herself calm. Then he'd let her go, take her in his arms and hold her until she fell asleep.  
  
But she was learning what her triggers were, and learning how to avoid them, so the incidents were happening less and less, much to her relief. She hated feeling scared and helpless, hated having to depend on Pete to stop her tantrums.  
  
But Pete did have his downs, although few and far between, but far worse than Miranda's. Her episodes were over within a few hours. His could last for entire days. There was nothing around him that triggered him, but sometimes, he'd sit and think, too long and too hard, about something or other that happened to him that he wasn't too pleased with. Miranda was never sure what had happened to him when he was younger – he wasn't the type to always share information – but tried everything she could to help him. She found that what worked the most was a reassuring hug (he had a weakness for her hugs, especially if she hugged around his waist, because he said that sometimes, a man just needed a hug around the waist) and then some space and time.  
  
He didn't prefer to talk about his past or his feelings. He said he was much better off keeping things inside him, not sharing his traumas with her. She argued that he was going to explode from keeping everything inside, so once in a long while, he would admit, "Oh, just thinking about when I was sixteen," or "the time when I was arrested." But he never went into details about those times, so she never knew what exactly happened.  
  
These days, though, she'd noticed a few more mood swings with him. He'd be in a complete funk and then he'd do a sudden three-sixty and jump to his feet, smiling, saying he'd just been lost in thought.  
  
And it seemed that that night would be another time when he was just 'lost in thought.'  
  
When he thought she was asleep, he crawled out of bed, went into the bathroom, closed the door.  
  
It was ridiculous – she'd told him time and time again that when he woke up, she did too. If he got out of bed, she would notice, but he still didn't believe her.  
  
When there was no sound of a toilet flushing after a few more minutes than usual, she waited, and then heard something clatter, and him curse quietly.  
  
But then tiredness overcame her and she drifted back to sleep, only to wake with Pete's arms around her, his eyes already open, watching her wake up.  
  
"Morning," she whispered, holding the hand that was draped around her, kissed it.  
  
"Morning," he whispered back.  
  
"Why are you wearing long sleeves, baby? It's so warm in here," she commented.  
  
He shrugged. "I was cold last night."  
  
"I could've kept you warm," she pouted playfully.  
  
"Mm, how about you do that tonight then? If the offer's still open, of course."  
  
A few minutes later, he buried his face in his pillow, pulled his arm away and lay it awkwardly beside him.  
  
"Are you all right, Pete?" she sat up, touched his shoulder gently.  
  
He mumbled something that sounded a lot like, "Fucking rights I am," but she wasn't sure. "Pete?"  
  
He lifted his head, pushed himself up with one arm. "What?" he snapped.  
  
Miranda was taken aback. "What's wrong?" she whispered.  
  
He lowered his eyebrows angrily, then cradled his left arm gently, his angry expression fading. "Miranda?" he whispered, grabbing into her left arm, his fingers tracing the scars, then holding out his own left arm, palm up.  
  
Unsure, she started to roll up the long black sleeve, moving it up his arm. He looked away as she revealed his forearm and gasped silently.  
  
Her fingers traced the cut marks from his wrist, halfway up his forearm, one extending over to his elbow. They were still slightly puffy and red, and he winced at the touch, closed his eyes.  
  
"Oh, Pete…" she breathed. "Why?"  
  
He pulled his arm away, took the shirt off entirely, dropped it on the bed beside him. She tried to not eye the faded scars on his body. "I don't…" He ran his fingers through his hair, nervous. "There's some thing I don't know how to cope with, you know that."  
  
"Honey, we can talk about things. You know that. I will always talk to you. I don't want you to have to hurt yourself."  
  
"But what if it's about something you don't understand?"  
  
"Then I'll…"  
  
"Analyze me?"  
  
"Help you in any way I can," she corrected him. "I'm not going to play psychiatrist on you."  
  
"Oh, good, good," he nodded sarcastically. "Dammit." He slapped at his left arm, stood up and walked into the bathroom, not closing the door.  
  
From her spot on the bed, she saw him turn on the tap and wash his face, then dry it on a hand towel. He glared into the mirror, and in one extreme act, made a fist and hurled it into the silver glass.  
  
Miranda didn't even have a chance to scream as he stumbled out, blood already streaming down his arm, dripping onto the floor.  
  
"Miranda!" he gasped, slumping over, leaning against the wall, chuckling awkwardly. "Shit."  
  
Grabbing the shirt off the bed, she jumped to the floor, held it hard against his hand, and he gritted his teeth, refused to cry out. "Hon, you stay right here and hold that there, and I'll be right back, all right?"  
  
"Where are you going?" he asked quietly, suddenly afraid. Another piece of him pulled out of the depths of himself. "You're leaving me?"  
  
"No, I just have to make a phone call, okay? At that phone right there," she pointed to the one on the bedside table.  
  
"Okay," he gripped at one hand with the other.  
  
Fighting back tears, Miranda hurried over to the phone to call an ambulance. 


	4. Chapter Four

Miranda didn't cry much these days. She'd long since gotten through the tears and the grieving and the nights of screaming in her head, fighting with herself, trying to answer questions she didn't know how to ask. 

It'd been a few months since Pete's "accident" and she had finally come to terms with the fact that he was not coming home – oh, God, her heart was breaking – and so she decided to leave Pete's place (what was the point in staying? He was never moving back in. The lawyers were taking care of all the particulars, so she didn't have to worry about the house), move into a smaller, neighbouring town, start all over. Again.

She had most of her stuff packed in boxes, waiting in her car. A few were still scattered around the house (most of her furniture waited at a friend's house, who had generously offered to store it until she was settled in), and she was just finishing clearing her stuff out of the bedroom closet.

It hurt to go through it, seeing as how most of Pete's clothes were still there (his brother always said he'd get around to clearing out more stuff, but he kept putting it off, which stressed Miranda, but she never said anything about, seeing as how he also had to cope with his brother being a full-timer in a mental institution. Oh, the irony was killing all of them), and it smelled like him – his cologne, his laundry soap…

Piling the last of a stack of papers from the filing cabinet (yes, it was in the closet; Miranda thought it odd but Pete assured her his parents did the same thing and he'd just picked it up from them) into the cardboard box that awaited, she was about to close the drawer when she noticed a file folder with Miranda's name on it, in Pete's casually-handwritten script.

Curiously – and even though she feared she'd regret it later, and return to her old custom of crying her self to sleep at night – she pulled the file out, opened it, glanced at the papers it contained.

Shuffling through, she realized most were half-finished letters, notes, poems, all to her, and all about how he cared about her. Some drifted off away from the topic of her, and Pete had obviously tried to tell her some secrets about him. A few stopped short with "_ah, fuck it 'cause if I can't say it to your gorgeous face, I can't write it to you._"

But now she was going to cry again; one in particular, as she glanced at the date, caught her eye. It was from months ago now, and she realized it was the morning when he was cooking all those eggs, before he cut himself that one horrible night. It was a detailed letter, over four pages long, and she sat on the floor for at least half an hour, her legs becoming stiff and sore tucked under her for so long, as she read and re-read it. Tears fell down her cheeks (a few landed on the paper and smudged his carefully-printed title, bolded with thick strokes of a pen; **_I Hate Every Fucking Beautiful Day_**) as Pete's scrawled words told her so much about him, and she wanted nothing more than to break down the door that he was locked behind, and beg him to go back to the way he was. Or simply take his gentle hand in hers and run away forever. Or, another option, was to go back in time and stop everything bad from happening to him.

But the only thing she could do was lean against the wall and cry.

The last half-letter she looked at was obviously from the night he'd cut his left arm; there were smudges of blood on the paper, and he kept writing _oh god it hurts why the fuck did I do this again?_ in the margin.

She might have fallen asleep she sat there so long, tears dry on her face, the papers spread out on the floor around her; she wasn't sure, but all of a sudden she snapped back into reality. Pete was gone, and she couldn't get him back. Not the Pete he used to be, anyway. Reality was a cruel mistress ("more like a bitch," Miranda announced out loud to herself), and she couldn't change the facts. So she put the papers back in the folder (only then did she notice Pete had doodled hearts on the cover of it; "how very schoolgirl of him," she smiled), placed it in her box, taped it shut, and left the room, heading down the stairs to finish loading her car.

Miranda had been through hell and back (being possessed, murdering her husband, playing games with a ghost in a mental institution, and now, losing her new love; he wasn't dead but he was about as good as), and nothing was going to break her now. She was on her own and could take whatever was coming to her.

She just hoped that – unlike her two previous lovers – she would die happy.

fin


End file.
